


Beneath Your Scars

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bass POV, First Person Narration, I feel the world does not yet understand that Miloe was made for bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Slapping, and I will go down with my ship, and NBC cancelled my feels, but I will continue to operate under their sweet spell, even though 2.20 was basically the worst, loving bondage, tasteful handballing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1612346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the stretch of the night that is most dangerous, so the boys will spend it together and give the other exactly what he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beneath Your Scars

Rap, rap-rap, rap at the bedroom door: Miles. I jump as if my skin has ceased to be home, though Miles bounds me as much as I can be bound. A corner of my brain tells me it’s half-past three, but I don’t remember counting the chimes of the mahogany grandfather clock in the hall, raising its silver half-moon, never advancing phases, always the cunning slit over the midnight blue expanse with twelve stars, I’ve counted them enough times to know. Its other-worldly music is so final; I _hate_ that it sounds so final. I did not make the choice to be here. He made it for me with his giant, delicately veined hand. He took my gun. I’m grateful, don’t get me wrong, but more reliant than ever. More reliant than he can ever comprehend.

This is the stretch of the night when those who have welcomed death re-contemplate it – four hours into a losing battle with sleep, everything insurmountable, most especially those things that supposedly come naturally: breathing, heartbeats. I don’t really want to die, but it’s addicting as a drug to think about, an end to the cycles of memories. What mainly subverts the pleasure in it is this: Dying alone.

You come into the world as intimately as possible, tucked inside your mother’s womb, and you leave it entirely alone.

I still haven’t answered the door. I imagine Miles sighing and leaning heavily against it, appreciating the structure it lends as he runs a large hand over his face - the scraping his stubble makes. He sees my non-answer as fulfillment of what he deserves rather than the inertia it is.

So to prove him wrong, I swing my legs over the edge of my bed and yank open the door just as the pale, bare back, puckered with scars, is retreating down the hall. He freezes at the change in air and turns, clad only in thin shorts, face concealed in the darkness except for the glittering black eyes.

We don’t speak. I know why he’s here. I stand aside to let him in, his calloused fingers just brushing my naked thigh beneath the hem of my boxers. When I light the candle on my nightstand, the crags of Miles’ grizzled face flicker into view, thick eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. The dark eyes bore into his own hands as if they see blood there.

I silently set about removing the necessaries from the drawer, a length of rope, a blindfold, lubricant, a plug, a clean towel. Laying the accoutrements beside Miles’ thigh, I watch his eyes travel over them, seemingly electrifying the very hairs on his arms.

“Okay. Take off your shorts and lie on your back,” I order.

Miles immediately complies, and just the sight of my general taking orders without question summons blood to my crotch. Tight layers of muscles stacked on top of each other and dark hair, his arms extended above his head at the ready, the skin of his ribcage straining for me.

After discarding my own shorts, I settle down atop his lean stomach, my balls pooling on his warm fur, as I fasten his outstretched arms above his head: _mine_. To think how many years I spent deprived of his whiskey-sweetness, how even now when he’s completely submissive to me I’m already dreading the next time I won’t be able to touch him, wool obstructing the jagged hips and quotidian concerns creasing his forehead.

Christ, his black eyes are eager, tracing my every move, his breath hot on my arms as my fingers weave their automatic knots. Tension crackles just beneath his skin and claims his cock, rising up behind my ass; I don’t need to look to know. Miles gets hard as soon as you bind him - that thick, pink cock, so impossibly hard it makes me ache in sympathy for its release. I blindfold him, a little sorry to part with his desirous eyes.

I slide my butt downwards over his erection, crushing it down brutally to a strained hiss, and watching it spring back up after I’ve passed over. I smile at it.

“Spread ‘em,” I order and kneel between his thighs, pouring heat at me; my man runs hot as a fever. “Lift them up,” I add calmly, positioning his legs on my thighs so that his innocent little pucker darkened by a smidge of hair is inclined toward me. Fuck, I want to kiss it, it’s so perfect, but instead I douse with lubricant the plug, a bizarre thing that resembles a unicorn’s horn with its clear plastic ridges, although it gets very thick, very fast, and plunge the point into him without warning, twisting it.

“Mmmh!” Miles seizes up and writhes in his bonds, inscribing his wrists with angry burns. He never got our M so this is the closest I’ll come to a brand. I fuck him on the plug, in and out. Miles’ moaning is immediate and complex in ways it never is when we just make love. It’s like he’s been waiting all day to hurt. He wants me to abuse him like he abuses me; he’s positively desperate for it. He hasn’t considered simply stopping the cycle. Maybe we’re both too addicted at this point.

Resting my free hand on his leg, I smooth the hair-lined skin there. “Shh,” I reel him in before jamming in the plug up to its monstrous terminus. I give it one final twist, watching with satisfaction as his skinny stomach wrenches. I brush off his legs to either side as if his pain is nothing to me when I actually want to soothe him so badly this takes just as much discipline for me as it does for him. I slide up his belly so that my cock skids along his, pausing right there, pressing my hardness down into his. It hurts us both, but for the moment, I'm almost convinced we both like pain.

“What do you want tonight?” My voice is ragged from our cocks on fire and how much I want him. Easing up, I flick out my tongue to trace a mass of scar tissue along his hip that on any other man would be ugly. He quivers. “You can speak freely,” I inform his expectant skin.

“You inside me,” comes the hoarse voice at last, and that makes me chuckle.

“Oh, you’ll have me inside you, in every part of you. What else?” I love to hear it, how he wants me to ravage him, what he dreams about and longs for. I fantasize about him all the time. It’s thrilling to know he does the same. Of course my fantasies are somewhat less violent-

“To be slapped. Slap the shit out of me, Bass.”

His cock below me twitches in need as he confesses. Jesus. I try never to judge what Miles wants, but that’s not to say it doesn’t make me a little dismayed at times. He doesn’t deserve what he thinks he does, but if I didn’t satisfy this in him then he’d find some other way. He needs me, and I need him to need me.

Nevertheless, I sigh. “Miles. I don’t see why you have to hate yourself so much. But of course I’ll slap your pretty little face around to start.”

I move further along his body until I’m sitting on his lower rib cage and commence, backhanding his cheek with a vicious smack, first one way and then the other. Then repeat. My hand smarts enough that I have to shake it out. His cheeks turn ruddy beneath the blindfold, and he bites his lip, drawing to the surface a tiny speck of crimson. I cool his cheeks with the backs of my fingers and bend forward to suck his bottom lip, tasting penny and whiskey.

When I slowly lick along his top lip, his tongue flicks out to meet mine. I’m being far more indulgent than I normally would, but my desire to possess him is hampering my self-control. Fuck, I’m hard enough myself that my balls are starting to throb against his skin. I suck in his tongue and mouth-fuck it roughly.

Just as Miles is surrendering completely, I pull back and position the head of my cock at his lips. It’s then I realize how far gone I really am: my tip is oozing clear liquid onto his lips and I almost come at first contact with the wet heat. I settle in carefully, deeply, feeling his throat constrict and recover - my perfect slave. He can take my cock. I back out slowly to let him play with the tip, which he laps at, tracing my slit, sounding it just the minutest amount as he knows I like, producing in me a shudder so hard, my toes curl.

I let myself wantonly moan and fist his short, damp hair, yanking it away from the roots. Miles sucks me in, his cheeks hollowing, cock-worshipping. Unceremoniously, I push him off and he whines.

“You want me to come in your mouth?” I check.

Miles opens his mouth for me to stuff again in confirmation.

No. Too eager, not enough submission. It’s my fault because I let myself get to this point of desire - haven’t been depriving him enough. This won’t do. “Tell me how much you want it.”

“I want it,” he grunts.

“I want it, _sir_ ,” I correct.

Miles is silent, not because he can’t take orders; he took them for many, many years.

“Say it, Miles.”

“Fuck my mouth, _goddammit_.”

He’s recalcitrant because he wants me to punish him.

“So you need convincing, slave. I can do that.” I grab hold of his right nipple and twist it white, his whole body coiling up beneath me in agony.

“Ah!”

“You know how to make it stop.” I lean back and reach for his balls, wrenching the skin of one with my free hand, it one way and the nipple the other. Shit, I feel it too - his pain. I want it to stop, but I know he’ll tell me when _he_ wants it to stop.

“FUCK!”

“Say it.”

“Want you to fuck my mouth, sir,” it comes out in a rush.

“Who?”

“SIR.” I release his delicate skin with both hands at once, and he breathes.

“Well, I’d be happy to.”

I position my cock between his lips once more and slide in along his hot, rough tongue. As soon as I bump throat I begin pumping. Miles chokes and wheezes. I suddenly want to know if tears are collecting in the corners of his eyes in that way they do when your mouth is being brutalized and you lose control of your face. He squirms so hard I can barely get the blindfold off. Sure enough, there’s a track of wet down his cheek.

I pop out and wipe away his tear with the back of a finger. Fuck, he’s beautiful.

“Had enough?” I ask him. Baby. Why do we have to hurt each other? It shouldn’t have to be this.

“More,” Miles whisper-moans. Jesus, his limits are way out there.

I sigh and go in for a second round, harder still, nailing his throat with terrible force, him nearly gagging on me over and over. His mouth is so hot and filled with saliva, that my dick is on fire.

Abruptly I pull out and make a decision. Sometimes it happens this way - I have to quit before him, because the endurance of his self-loathing is greater than my biological limits. “You’ve had enough.”

“No, I can take more,” comes his extremely hoarse voice followed by a cough. His pupils are so dilated with want that it might disconcert me if I weren’t used to it.

I force a laugh. “Honey, I know you can take more, but you don’t _get_ more. That’s the point.” I follow his watery black eyes down to my cock, so red from his throat it looks as if it’s been scalded by boiling water.

“No, you’re going to watch yourself fuck me,” I explain, thinking privately, _Because I can’t wait anymore_. I grab the pulsing base of Miles’ cock and dump lube over it, settling down its shimmering length and allowing its largeness to stretch me open, exciting each little nerve in passing. Christ do I feel at home stuffed by Miles.

“Keep looking at me. Don’t blink,” I demand, though I can barely keep my own eyes open. His two blackish irises lock onto the spectacle of me bucking to a wild high. I impale my prostate so hard I start to lose it with scarcely any manual stimulation from my loose grip on myself.

“Oh,” Miles gasps at the sight. “Fuck,” he whispers as I clench the fingers of my non-occupied hand around his base to prevent him from following me. I sink backward and really let his cock prod my insides, my head lolling backward as I spend myself, seed spritzing my chest and dripping down my stomach like cool, little raindrops.

“You can blink.” I open my eyes just in time to see the thick brown eyelashes squeeze together.

I’m suddenly exhausted. I finally release his base and sink all the way down his pole to the wiry hair beneath, caressing his stomach with my seed-soaked fingers. “God, Miles. You have the best cock.”

He exhales a whimper, because he’s still caught inside me, but I won’t let him come.

“Should we check on your butt?” I smile sliding up and off him. “How many fingers do you want tonight?”

“All of them,” Miles grunts, and I arch an eyebrow. Well, we have been working up to this for a while. But I’m not so keen on handballing when he’s tied up - it’s too delicate an enterprise.

“You think you’re ready for that?” I ask as my hands migrate up his ridges and over one exposed armpit, watching gooseflesh spread. Finally, I reach his bindings and begin to loosen them.

“Yeah.”

“All right then. I’ll untie you, but you’re still mine; understood?” He nods. “Turn over,” I instruct as I slick up my right hand as thoroughly as possible, making sure each of my long fingers gets proper attention. I smoothly extract the plug from his ass, appreciating his brief, pretty little gape, and immediately replace its girth with two fingers. As usual, he’s boiling hot and polished in there, and goddamn, I can feel him breathing from the inside. It's the sexiest thing in the world.

I don’t want to squander the looseness we’ve achieved so I immediately insert two more fingers and begin to stretch him with my thumb.

“Mmm,” a tiny whine escapes Miles, but he’s doing so well - is opening up to me like he’s never done before. It almost makes my chest sting how much he trusts me.

“Yeah, that’s it. You can do this, Miles. Let me all the way in,” I encourage, walking my slender fingers in millimeter by millimeter until I’m at the broadest part of my hand - the dreaded sticking point.

Without warning, Miles tries to flip over to look. I push him down with the other hand abruptly. “No! Jesus, Miles. You’ll break my hand and your ass. Just relax. We’re almost there. We’ll get there together. Be patient.” He settles again, burying his face in the pillows and sniffing.

We both wait, listening to each other breathe, my own blood rushing in my ears in excitement. I know it might seem strange, but at this moment there is nothing I desire more than to have my whole hand inside of this man, to possess him that completely. Miles always holds something back. I feel if I can just get all the way in, that fourth wall will break, and I’ll finally know only what is real. He’ll be mine forever.

Every few moments or so I’ll give a tiny push just to remind his muscles I’m there waiting if they’re ready for me. On a sixth or seventh minute thrust, my hand actually disappears. Fucking fuck. It feels incredible. I’m so shocked I forget to breathe and choke when I try to tell him. I even forget I’m supposed to be in charge here. I’m just so damn proud of him - of _us_.

“Miles! We did it. Fuck, you’re awesome. I want you to come!” I need to feel him come around my hand. He’s so slick and stretched and Christ, this shouldn’t be possible. The human body is wonderful. I twist my hand just the slightest, while he grinds forward into the mattress, gasping almost hysterically, his muscle contractions kneading my hand in his release.

“Yeaaah,” I encourage. I feel impossibly triumphant. He comes for a mind-bogglingly long time, but he always does during a session. His feet and calves are cramping up behind me as he writhes and moans, fisting his own hair.

“Time to let me go, babe. Just breathe.” It’s a process; he reaches back with his hand to intertwine in my free fingers, as I slowly climb my way back out. By the time his body has stopped clinging to me, he’s shaking violently. I give the hand I’m holding a squeeze to let him know we’re finished and gently press a towel in between his legs so that he can roll over.

“Did it hurt?” I ask. He shakes his head and curls up in my lap, soft raven hair against my most sensitive skin. I stroke his crown luxuriantly. “How did it feel?”

“Relaxing. I feel… the most relaxed I can remember.”

It wasn’t what I was expecting, but now that I’ve heard it, it’s exactly what I wanted to hear.

Then he adds a little shakily, “How was it for you?”

“Intimate. Wonderfully fucking intimate.”

He nuzzles down a little more into my lap.

I crane my lips to plant a kiss on his forehead and hold him some more. Absent-mindedly I run the fingers of the hand that was inside him along the ink of his tricep.

His eyes drift over to it, and he whisper-laughs, “Ew. Wash it off.”

“All right. I’ll wash up. You get under the covers. Need a wet rag?”

He shakes his head, as I drift over to the pan of water, dipping my hands in and scrubbing clean with the bar of soap. My brain is buzzing blank. I’m entirely contented.

In a moment, I blow out the nearly burnt-down candle and slide under the sheets alongside him. He burrows his face into my armpit. “Bass, I… thanks. I feel amazing,” comes his muffled voice.

“You are amazing.”

He snorts. He can take my whole hand but not a compliment, and so we’ll surely have to repeat this on another day.

“Love you,” he tells my armpit. I let those perfect words hang in the early-morning hush, limbs sewn together, the pleasant fragrance of extinguished flame lulling us to sleep at last.


End file.
